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Authors: Fiona Brand

BOOK: Cullen's Bride
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Rachel's eyes locked guiltily with his. The silence drew tighter, relieved only by a faint breeze rattling through dessicated trees. The forgotten letter flipped over on the ground; she snatched for it, but it skated along, ending up snagged on Cullen's boot. He retrieved it, then gathered up the cream envelope, which still lay where she'd let it fall. He handed the mail back to her with the discreetly embossed words
Wedding Invitation
right side up.
“Anyone I know?”
Her fingers closed on the invitation. “I don't believe you ever met my husband.”
Before he could answer, before that rock-hard impassivity could change to something as damning as compassion, she grabbed her duffel, spun on her heel and scrambled with as much dignity as she could muster down to the river. When she was alone she sat on the bank, the invitation with its letter scrunched in one hand, staring at the water for long minutes Finally she let out a breath and felt an inner tightness relax. Sighing, she tossed the scraps of expensive paper into the flowing water and watched them float away.
She wouldn't go to that wedding and watch her ex-husband marry someone else. But she didn't feel as devastated as she'd thought she would. She wasn't exactly over the moon about Adam's impending nuptials, of course. Maybe ten years from now she could think of Adam and his wife-to-be with relaxed civility. But she was only human, and right now her only regret in throwing the invitation and letter away was that she was littering the stream.
The soothing sounds of the river closed around her. She stared determinedly at the water until she was certain Cullen had gone. When she couldn't stand the inactivity for a second longer, Rachel peeled off her shirt and shorts and dropped them onto the mossy bank, revealing the old cream one-piece swimsuit she wore beneath. It seemed somehow symbolic and cleansing to dive into the deep green centre of the pool. But when she surfaced and pulled herself up onto the diving rock on the opposite side, Cullen was there, still minus his shirt, sitting atop a big, black stock horse with all the smooth, easy grace of the natural horseman.
Anger at his calm arrogance overcame her instant awareness that once again he'd caught her at a disadvantage. “Like what you see?” she demanded coolly.
His head came up, eyes narrowed and intense. “I'm male.”
“Well, hallelujah for that!”
“And what about you? Did you like what you saw?”
Rachel gritted her teeth. So, he did know she'd watched him. “I only saw half.”
“You haven't answered my question.”
Her own eyes narrowed at his persistence. She was too unsettled to do anything other than counter his bluntness with bluntness of her own. “I couldn't comment honestly until I'd seen all of it.”
The horse jibbed as if Cullen had suddenly tightened his hands on the reins. He brought the animal under control, his shoulders flexing and glistening with the movement. “Is that an invitation or a challenge?”
“Take it whichever way you like.”
The small silence that followed had all the hairs at her nape lifting and her skin quivering with every brush of the breeze, every trailing droplet of water. Cullen's chest rose as if he'd just filled his lungs to capacity, but when he spoke his voice was completely devoid of inflection.
“Feel free to swim here any time you like. Have you got another swimsuit besides that one?”
Her jaw loosened. “Several. Why?”
“Because when it's wet, it's the same colour as your skin.”
It wasn't what she'd expected to hear. The suit was an old one she'd left behind in her room and, apart from the high-cut legs, was very modest. She'd never dreamed the fabric had become so thin and faded that it had become transparent.
“I can see everything,” he growled. “You might as well be naked.”
Wheeling his horse, he urged the big black animal up the bank. It took the steep grade with all the agile grace of a big cat before disappearing from sight.
Exit stage right, she thought shakily, staring down at the dark peaks of her breasts, easily visible through the light material of her suit, then farther down to the shadow at the apex of her legs. She wrapped her arms around her middle, embarrassment washing through her, along with another emotion, one not easily admitted to.
He didn't want her.
She'd been standing almost naked in front of him, and he still wasn't tempted. His rejection somehow seared more deeply than the wedding invitation she'd just disposed of. Sinking down onto the rock, Rachel let her head drop onto her drawn up knees. She'd already learned that her feminine assets were ordinary at best. They hadn't been enough to hold Adam. And compared to the sheer magnetism of Cullen, Adam seemed as tame and ordinary as a sleepy house cat next to a hungry Bengal tiger.
 
Cullen got far enough away from the river that the scents of damp earth and water had been replaced by dry vegetation and dusty cattle. His hands curled on the reins, drawing the horse to a standstill. Mac snorted, his neck flexing against the reins.
Cullen couldn't leave her.
The revelation unfolded slowly within him, locking up his muscles until the horse jigged forward at the unintentional pressure of his thighs. Cullen curbed the sudden movement with the reins, making the gelding toss his head, then peer around at him with an enquiring look.
“Damn,” Cullen said softly, running a reassuring hand along the satiny line of Mac's neck and staring at the distant, brooding hills, then closer in, at the flood-damaged bridge he was supposed to be checking over preparatory to getting an engineer in. Always before he'd been able to concentrate on whatever goal he assigned himself, to control his emotions—to not allow this kind of intimacy to develop.
Rachel's personal life was none of his business.
Her ex-husband was a damned fool, and that was also none of his business.
He swore in the roughly eloquent patois of one of the several different languages he'd learned in countries that were just as harsh and damned as the syllables that leaped from his tongue. Then he wheeled Mac and sent him at a fast easy-moving lope back to the shady grove they'd just vacated.
 
A faint sound had Rachel scrambling to her feet as Sullen appeared, minus his intimidatingly large horse. He came down the bank and onto the rock shelf with the smooth animal grace that was as natural to him as breathing.
Crossing her arms over her breasts, she watched him warily. “I thought you were leaving?”
“I meant to leave. I guess I'm not as good at it as I should be.”
Rachel swallowed hard on the hysterical desire to laugh. The flippant remark, “I wouldn't take any bets on that, buddy,” trembled on the tip of her tongue, but instead she found herself saying, “So, why did you come back? Maybe you wanted to offer the poor abandoned wife—or should I say ex-wife?” she amended, “a consolation prize?”
“You still love him.”
For a moment she thought she'd misheard his flat statement. His sheer effrontery forced an answer from her. “I don't know what I feel for Adam,” she admitted, surprising herself. “He wants to be friends.”
“And you weren't made to be any man's friend. With you, it's all or nothing.”
Rachel stared through the harsh sunlight into his eyes, into a molten darkness that threatened to pull her in. She must have made a small sound. She registered it vaguely, just as she registered the smooth, purposeful way he moved toward her. His hands settled on her shoulders, rough-textured, warm, the touch so featherlight it made her shake. The breath left her on a jerky sigh, half delight, half a shimmering tensile awareness of danger, as she stepped up against the muscular strength of his body. But instead of the kiss she expected, he wrapped his arms all the way around her and pulled her in close.
His breath left him on a low vibrating rumble, his chin came to rest on the top of her head, and he pressed her face into the pad of muscle at the curve of his shoulder. Rachel closed her eyes briefly against the wonder of his gesture, the incredible heat surrounding her, and something only just realised—a quality that had been there all along with Cullen, but which she'd never fully defined—a sense of rightness. Of finally coming home. The thought drifted, settled, but she was too tired, too momentarily content, to examine the curious dichotomy—that there was nothing in the least secure or domesticated about the man who was holding her with such care.
“Didn't he get to know you at all?” Cullen mused in a voice that was little more than a rough purr. “You're so fierce and wild beneath that ladylike exterior. If you were my wife and I left you for another woman, I'd spend the rest of my life wearing a flak jacket and watching my back.”
“Adam's not like that,” she mumbled, a strange, hesitant joy filling her at the teasing note in his voice. She tried to picture Adam. His hair was brown, he was a little above medium height, leanly muscled, assured and good-looking in a completely urban way. “He runs a successful advertising agency and prides himself on not having enemies. It would never occur to him that anyone
wouldn't
like him.”
“I don't like him,” Cullen murmured, stroking his chin across her hair as if he liked the feel of her against his skin. “Want me to go see him for you?”
“And do what?” She found herself smiling. “Tell him he has to marry me again?”
That surprised a low sound of amusement from Culled. “Hell, no,” he drawled softly- “I'd give him a sympathy card, because one day he's going to realise what a mistake he made in letting you go. But it's not all bad news, because he was all wrong for you anyway.”
Rachel breathed in the river-scented musk of his skin, the unnerving delight of being so close to him. “So, tell me,” she found herself asking while she braced herself for his answer, “who's right?”
He didn't answer for a long time, just continued to hold her, and she couldn't help but be aware that his hug wasn't purely comfort—she could feel the firm male pressure of him against her belly. He was fully aroused, although he seemed prepared to ignore that fact.
“Not me,” he said finally.
Pain sliced through her at the simple denial. Rachel knew that what they shared was little more than an abortive series of encounters, each one of which Cullen had been determined to walk away from without furthering their acquaintance. But even knowing that, and despite every attempt to armour herself against the attraction, Rachel hadn't been able to stern her feelings. She felt an attachment, a bond with Cullen, that went beyond logic or sensibility. When she was with him she felt more alive, more vital, more
female,
than she ever had before.
With an effort of will she freed herself from his embrace, suddenly hating the comfort he was giving her, the notion that Cullen was letting her down gently, that he hadn't meant to come back at all and was probably regretting it. “You should wait to be asked before you turn a lady down,” she said in a voice that, despite every effort at control, shook
The breeze stirred the feathery branches above them, sending shadows sliding across his skin. “If you asked, I don't know if I could refuse. I don't want to put my resolve to the test.”
She looked blindly away. “You won't have to.”
He touched her jaw, bringing her gaze back to his. The lingering stroke of his fingers was so indescribably tender that she drew in her breath against the light tingle of it, closed her eyes against the shiver of need that rippled through her.
“Don't,” he muttered thickly.
His warm palm slid possessively around her nape, his long, strong fingers rasping gently against her skin, slipping into her hair. He dipped his head, his teeth closing over the sensitive flesh of her lobe, and the sharp pleasure-pain tore a small sound from her.
He lifted his head but didn't take his hands off her. Both hands now, cupped around her throat. “If you've got any sense you'll slap my face. Now.”
He was going to kiss her. And Rachel knew with a sickening twist in her stomach that she shouldn't let him do it. Not again. It was bad enough standing here while he rejected any possibility of a relationship—while he expressed his frustration at even being attracted to her—and at the same time made love to her with every rasp of his work-hardened fingertips, every warm brush of his breath sliding across her cheek. If he caressed her with his mouth, she wouldn't want him to stop.
But she didn't have the strength or the will to stop something she wanted so badly, and that stark realisation filled her even as his breath filled her mouth. She'd never felt this aroused, this
alive,
with Adam, and Cullen had barely touched her. Her marriage had been happy, satisfying, everything she could have wished for, but she hadn't felt this consuming hunger, this deep wrenching sensation, as if the man fitting his firm, brooding mouth to hers had reached down inside her and taken possession of everything she was, everything she could be.

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